Meanwhile, back at the ranch

[labelwench]

The rider assessed her two Morgan mares critically. Both were lovely creatures, selected for their exemplary temperaments, sound conformation and hardiness.

The Yukon was verging on the extreme range of habitat suitable for the horse, a species better suited to the grassland regions than the boreal forest. There was little natural forage for the species, winters were long and harsh, and to thrive in this climate, horses were dependant on humans.

Although some hay and oat crops were grown in Yukon, most of the feed for livestock was trucked 1300 or more miles, at considerable expense and environmental impact.

The Morgans were"easy keepers", in horseman's terms and supplemented their diet by seeking out the nourishing weeds that grew in their paddock. The natural effort of this diversion kept the mares in good form year round.

Madelaine was the most typical of the breed standard, and would be the choice of many a breeder by that consideration alone. Caramel, on the other hand, had a most unusual length of stride and a boundless desire to please.

And the rider's mother thought that Caramel had a pretty face. You've got to love Mothers. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.

[Graybeard]

Both were lovely creatures, selected for their exemplary temperaments, sound conformation and hardiness.

Just goes to show, you can't always go by looks. I had a horse once, a genuine 'Mexican Plug'. Pure bred, as far as anything can be when it comes to 'Mexican Plugs'.

He wasn't a lovely creature, he was a roan, and God have given a terrible spray job. Nor was he selected for his exemplary temperament either. Somewhere, sometime in his youth, someone had cut off his knackers and he never seemed to have gotten over it, nor forgiven it.

Nor did he meet the standard 'sound conformation'. But he was hardy.

His description might lead you to believe that he was somewhat of a broken hack. Old, swayback, little pig eyes with a dangerous venomous glint of red, splayed legs and pigeon toed splayed hooves, short thick bull-neck shaped like a question mark. Little ears that would pin-back whenever he was about to indulge in biting, kicking, bucking, rolling on you, going under a tree at full gallop, in order to take you off on a low branch ... and other such pastimes that seemed to provide him with some form of amusement.

But he WAS hardy. In fact he was a stock horse, and with stock he was in his element. As Marty Robbins used to say, 'He would turn on a nickel and give you some change'. And he WAS an expert at controlling cattle. If they were travelling to slow, (in his opinion) and his rider (me) was daydreaming and sleepy, he would just reach forward and bite the nearest high on the tail, the cow would begin to swing around and Sylvester would just put his shoulder into it as it was on the turn and over it would go. He would give a small tight whinny of delight as horse folk would describe it, but I would call it a nasty snigger.

His name really was Sylvester and once when I was walking in a daydream leading him he did this to me. Knocked me down as tho I was a member of the bovine family. When I got up I grabbed a thick branch and him and I had a serious discussion that rapidly became physical and didn't finish until that branch was broken into shards and Sylvester was totally bloody and 'cowed'.

Probably not the best method of training. But then again, it may have been, because he never mistook me for a cow again. Whenever his ears started to twitch I would reach out and pull a small branch off a tree, this always seemed to remind him that we had an agreement going that if broken would mean much pain to him.

But he was a great horse. At flat gallop on uneven broken rocky ground, even down slopes, and thru thick scrub you just had to let him have his head and sit back and enjoy the thrill. A thrill equalled only years later when I was given the chance to drive a race car. So far as I know he had never warn a saddle, nor shoes. I used to cut his hooves with a chisel and hammer, a really dangerous job, but I always had a stick handy ... lol.

He certainly would not have suffered a moose in his stall. He would have evicted him, and he would have done it with positive delight.

cool bananas ... greg.

[labelwench]

Why, Greg, I'll know just who to call if I end up with a really rank one in the yard and need someone to help me lay it down with a "running W"!

Yeah, my young fella is a bit of a sissy when it comes to moose, but his 'ol lady, whom I sold to a neighbour lady up the lane, ran the moose out of her pen last spring.

And I was riding the famed Caramel a couple of weeks back and we spotted the cow and calve on the other side of our lane, running through the trees about 75 metres away. She flicked her ears at them, but didn't get tense or show any other concern.

Your Sylvester sounds like a horse with character and obviously, the two of you came to a working arragement, LOL.

Anytime you want to cowboy down and share other such experiences, you are most welcome on this thread.
Lor----

[labelwench]

There had been no foals at the stable since 2002, as the rider had been forced by a variety of considerations, (not the least of which was changing global weather), to close the stable and related retail business and join the wage economy.

Working full-time did not leave much time for other pursuits, of which horses were her interest, hobby and passion. The cost of raising a young foal in this less than moderate climate was also a consideration. Feed, salt and supplements, shelter, veterinary basics, hoof care, all added up to between $1,800-$3,000/per year, per horse, depending on the size of the animal, the fluctuations in weather and related costs, and how much of the husbandry the owner did personally.

At this venue, she was able to provide hoof care and administer vaccinations and basic vet care, thereby keeping her costs to the lower end of the scale. Weather and feed costs, she was as vulnerable to as everyone else, although she did have a bit of graze available, where she had created some edge habitat by clearing a portion of the stunted fire-regeneration pine forest for her pens and outbuildings.

She had been contemplating a breeding now for several years, and as she would be the one to work with and train the youngster to work under saddle, it might be time to get this process in motion.

From conception to birth, took almost a year. Most young horses were ready to accept a rider on their back by two years of age. A three year plan, just to this stage.....

The ground wasn't getting any softer as the years went by. Training young horses was not without a certain element of risk....

[labelwench]

The woman walked, leading the horse, reading the subtle signs left by nature's children....

Attachment 469

[austintorn@aol.com]

I don’t really have any good horse stories like Labelwench and Graybeard (that was a funny one)… but I did go on an African Safari. It was rather boring…


Upon a time once, there happied to be a person, namely Tom, who was going on a junket in the jungle. “Well”, said Tom deeply as he drank some water, mustering all his bread, “I’m going on a safairy. Who else is wanting to go with me to Arfrica? Come on, let’s hear it—don’t keep me in suspenders!”

“I’ll go, “ said Austin, “and document your adventures and travels.”

The jaunt was soon underway. Tom began to lose the way into the jungle, but, of course, they had a long way to go to reach the hearth of the jumble, which was their main objection.

As they were were wafting down a stream one day, they met a morphosis, much did their supper rise, for they were truly amazed at the size of the creature. Tom looked him eye to I, but, in a momentum it offed down the river with the waterly waterfowl, rinsing its way away rigorously and assuming speed. As they could not very well folly, they pondered on their wave with speed in order to make up for lost tide, but, before they could get up very much speech they noticed a boisterous blunderblubb blunting its bony bristles bold between the boards in the bottom of the bow and breathing belligerently before the befuddled boatmen’s boggled faces with eyes blinking bewilderingly. Tom got out of the leaky boat, then boarded it so that no more water could lurk. They all thought that this was surely something to ride home about but they kept on going so as not to upset the apricot, singing “Life is but a stream.”

They findingly reached the hearth of the jimble and went in with some others who went in for that sort of thing, and so they went to sleep, being very tired of being awake. When they woke up it was a good time for day. They were all but sleepless, but well restless, thanks to the mammoth moths without which there wouldn’t be any. A harsh day was ahead—in which they would lose themselves in the brambles and thereby bring about biggly game.

They wept down a narrow path which had the important purposed job of keeping on going through the jamble. Before too long they became weary of being tired and set up cramp, hoping to reach big game country tomorrow, much to their sorrow. At the tip of his bedpost Utombi (Tom in African) kept wergs for poisonous snacks such as the dudly cobbler and the shiftless python. But little did he know then that the very next day in the early owls of the morbid a true story would actionly happen.

Utomba (Tom) woke up slowly with a couple cubs of teeth. Then they were off and away. Thurble rocker stonies and thurgh deep valours they wept on weirdly, slurping their way though the jungle, with the hot humorous air all about them, and trying to avoid the voids and the slithly snarks. Thorg swampy marshes and betwixt low-hanging grundies they marshed until they come up upon a wide elephafat who was sporting his new Zambezi.

“Let’s go,” said Utumbad (Tom) in Wahili which is not arf from here as the crow’s fleas. Utombird (Tom) wished to bag at least three illusives, some allegories, and maybe even some hyperbolas on this trip. He recalled his days in the Arctic shouting polaroids.

Meanwhile, meaning harm, an elephapotomous walked them over, but with lead he shot him deadly full, did Utimble. They opened champagne to celebrate, but the elephapotomous revived and drank it all up with gay abdomen. They felt rather dejected at this point, but decided to keep up their good words. Utombud climbed a tree to look aground, and saw some game ahead or two. They ran ahead with wild expiration—head on into a head hunter who was trying to get ahead in the world. All too soon they came to a clearer in the jomble and set up campus, but old Utimberf refused to light up the fire on the grounds that it might incinerate him; so Utimbarf lit up the fire with brightness and they awaited the morning, which finally dawned on them.

Jungle Jim Jones, who shall remain nameless, was slowly but slowly asking his weight through the underpants, underware that he was being washed by Weird Harold. Something big was following them, however, since they could detect its noiseless meanderings with their hearful ears. Closer it came until Utombag (still Tom) thought that he may have him his death. With trusty footsteps did they brush through the rambles and ramble through the brush all around, and did crawl through the vines all around, and rush over streams with nary a gasp but to fight for their freedom. They sat down but for minimum before they, as deadly skulks, again had to slink their lurky forms along the jungle floor, sleuthfully slying their way. Onwardly onward they went onward without words and happened to fall in the river, where they found themselves covered with deadly jellyfish. Although surely in a jam now, they all happened to be lives preserving themselves, and so they got out of it all there. They had seen a man eating shark in a restaurant once, but that was nothing compared to this. They thought for sure that this was a grave plot.

The living end was plainly in sight now, and Jumping Jim, who shall remain home next time, spotted a leopard. The Barfing Baroodle shot some rhinostrills and hippoposthumouses and Utumbark. Old Utumbark was almost gone before he was operated on by a man of his kidney who said that he mighty liver save if he were to die, since he had several severe confusions of the right inner lower lung chamber, not forgetting the hemoglobals in his kidney. Well, he sure was a goody burple, and warbled for days and days, not knowing if ever he would see his hearse again. Everwabble knew that he wouldn’t ever get harm all saved and sounded, as they tended not to overestimate realty.

This slow faring safari never ended—they kept on shouting crackerdings, alligarters, wild boats, stammering elephats, cheaters, lepers, and old Utumbark and all, old Bungle Bob Gibble, Werg Bergle, and all . . .

(Sorry this was written in another language: UK English.)

[labelwench]

Horses are intertwined with the history and development of humankind.

Their backs and hooves have given us the means to travel afar. They have given us of their labour in agriculture and war.
Horses are a study in pure emotion. Know thyself before you would take the reins of such a marvellous steed....


Attachment 471

[labelwench]

By late afternoon, the day was pleasantly hinting at spring’s possible arrival this year.

Time yet for a ride, the rider began to groom Madelaine, Caramel’s younger sister by two years. The young mare had been started under saddle the previous July, and was still very green or inexperienced, but seemed possessed of an intelligent nature and a desire to please.

She had to frequently stop and pull hair from the teeth of the grooming comb, the long winter guard hairs of the horses were beginning to slip, in response to the increasing hours of sunlight among other factors. The mid-length undercoat was still holding firm, so it would be a while before the shedding blade came into play.

When the horses really began to shed, the hair brushed free in clumps, leaving a tufted carpet on the snow surrounding the horse. Given that her horses were of several colours, this created a very interesting scene. The nesting Ravens would frequently come and scoop up this hair in their beaks as a liner and insulator for their eggs. She wondered if the birds had some type of interior designer competition underway, as the Ravens seemed quite selective about which clumps were chosen.

Her horses were of hardy breeds, Caramel and Madelaine being purebred Morgan while Kinnick was a Morgan hybrid. Chellum was QH/TB, and had inherited her height from the Thoroughbred, while retaining the Quarter Horse hardiness.

Her horses spent most of each winter in the open with access to natural shelter and run-in sheds. She had a small insulated barn for any ill or injured animal and horse blankets and coats for each horse if the weather caused them discomfort.

Despite this having been a cold winter with above average snowfall, none of her horses had been seen shivering and the coats remained in storage.

[labelwench]

The young mare had been started under saddle the previous July, and was still very green or inexperienced, but seemed possessed of an intelligent nature and a desire to please.

Attachment 476

Click on image to see larger version.

[labelwench]

Flight is the defense mechanism of choice for the horse. The unfamiliar weight of the saddle on her back as well as the sensation of the girth gripping her midsection were foreign to the young mare.

Perhaps she could run away from these strange sensations.....

Attachment 477